


Let Not Light See My Black And Deep Desires

by afterafternoons



Category: The Book of Mormon - Ambiguous Fandom, The Book of Mormon - Parker/Stone/Lopez
Genre: How do I tag?, Internalized Homophobia, Kevin’s Assault (briefly mentioned), Lady Macbeth - Freeform, Loss of Religion, M/M, Pre-Mission (ish), Uganda Mission, Vaguely Referenced Conversion Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-27
Updated: 2019-02-27
Packaged: 2019-11-06 09:31:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17937227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afterafternoons/pseuds/afterafternoons
Summary: All his life, Connor’s come to know his preference for men to be a sin. Uganda is supposed to change him. He’s supposed to step up to the plate and finally move on, but Kevin Price changes all of that with his narcisstic personality and his poor sportsmanship. What Connor doesn’t understand is that they don’t know each other very well at all. As he gets to know Kevin Price, he finds he also gets to know himself.





	Let Not Light See My Black And Deep Desires

Connor sits in a desk across the way from his Bishop, swallowing his fears and anxieties. 

The first thing he notices is that the lights that illuminate the small office are much brighter than the dark stain on his soul. He’s tried everything to rub it out, crying out like Lady Macbeth, “Out, damned spot! Out I say!” 

But it does no good.

In his church, the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, worthiness interviews are conducted annually — biannually for older teens. They’re condemned by those outside of the church because of the scandals that shroud them, but that’s never been Connor’s experience.

“How are you?” Bishop Grant asks and Connor straightens his spine as if on command.

“I’m doing fine, you?” He engages in the idle chatter, followed by a direct and honest answer to each subsequent question. He confides that he’s never once thought to reject the Church’s teachings.

After all, they’re the only things meant to save him at the end of the day. His fate is thrust into the hands of Heavenly Father and he trusts him wholeheartedly, whatever decision he makes.

“Do you live the law of chastity?” Bishop Grant inquires, glancing up from the paper he’s marked with notes.

Connor nods ferociously.

Bishop Grant sets down his pen, leaning into his desk as he crosses his hands and Connor squirms at the impending question. “Last time we talked, Connor, you detailed your struggle with same sex attraction.” He moves his hands briefly to look over past notes, “You said you’ve had these thoughts for a while. Is there anything you’ve done in the meantime to—“

“Repent?” Connor offers as he interrupts because the longer this conversation is drawn out the more he feels like he’s going to throw up. “It’s a daily struggle, but I am— I am—“

His brain feels like it’s short circuiting and his throat is closing up and the nerves in his stomach are forcing all of his internal organs up his throat. His poise and grace are fading, but he’s trying desperately to keep it together.

“Sorry,” he shakes his head, “I am in therapy and I have never — will never — act on my attraction to men.”

“You do know that the attraction is normal, but it’s the action that is condemned?” Bishop Grant tries to clarify and Connor shakes his head.

“No,” he asserts, his hand gestures wild and grandiose, “no, because then you’re just keeping it down. And that’s lying to yourself and to Heavenly Father and lying is a sin.”

Bishop Grant takes note of his response.

“I’m ready for my mission,” Connor confesses, “I’m ready to nip this in the bud and I know spreading the word and immersing myself in the processes will really help.”

Months later, Connor gets himself appointed District Leader to a motley crew of missionaries in Uganda. It’s the perfect position to keep him both distracted and focused: distracted from his problem and focused on his work.

He doesn’t mind the location, though he could do without the sun beating down on his pale skin; and he truly doesn’t mind the people, save the fact that he can’t get anyone to listen.

Really the physical labor isn’t all that different from the things he was expected to do for the summer his parents sent him away. And Connor’s always been good about recognizing his problem and complying with the means in which he was expected to reject his most impure thoughts. 

At present, he’s left staring down the fact that in the past three months they’ve had 0 baptisms.

His hope changes with the parcel he receives from the MTC on one of his routine trips to Kampala.

Two missionaries are headed his way.

Kevin Price, who’s expected to thrive and succeed and who Connor quickly pins all of their hope on. And Arnold Cunningham, who is documented as facing a couple of setbacks that hopefully the act of being a missionary should smooth out.

For a fleeting second, Connor wonders if these setbacks are similar to his own as he flips through their paperwork back at his makeshift desk in Kitguli the next morning. But he’s quick to reject that thought or any hope it may bring, because after all, nothing would come of it anyways.

Because Connor is not homosexual.

He’s not homosexual when he stares down the pictures of both of their new recruits, faced with the fact that Elder Price is much more attractive than Elder Cunningham.

“Elder McKinley, are you okay?” His mission companion Elder Thomas, affectionately nicknamed Elder Pop-Tarts, checks in.

Connor swallows hard and tucks the letter back into the envelope. “We’re getting new recruits.” He informs Pop-Tarts instead of admitting that he’s most definitely not okay; because it’s not lying if he avoids the topic completely. “Things might start finally looking up around here.”

“That’s good news.” Elder Pop-Tarts grins.

Connor checks his watch, prepared to usher himself and his companion out of the Mission Hut for the day. “Let’s see if we can baptize anyone before they arrive.”

They find themselves elbow deep in donkey guts, recruited by one of the villagers who’s willing to learn so long as they help in preparing the meat.

Connor can’t stop gagging, but Pop-Tarts goes unphased as he explains their religion to the villager. Connor helpfully chiming in when he can.

With the disgusting work he’s tasked to do, he finds he isn’t thinking about his problem or Elder Price or even District 9’s problem — because he thinks he’s found their first convert.

Ultimately they’re turned away; left with some donkey meat for dinner and all of the things Connor hadn’t been thinking about hit him like a semi.

“We’ll try again tomorrow.” Pop-Tarts promises.

“Yeah.” Connor echoes, miserably.

Connor kicks the ground as they walk back to the hut, loaded backpacks on their backs and blood dried to their shirts. Is it his fault they don’t have any baptisms? Is he a bad leader? Or is this punishment for letting his gay thoughts slip through the cracks every now and again?

“We have dinner.” His companion tries to lighten the mood as the sun sets behind them and there’s so many rules and scripture passages and general thoughts floating around in Connor’s head that he can’t remember if they’re even allowed to accept gifts like this. He supposes they did help; so it’s only fair they get a share of the profit to sustain their little group.

Kevin Price proves to be a challenge. One that, initially, Connor feels compelled to take on.

It only gets worse after their first meeting and soon, Connor finds himself staring down an agenda that reads “Companion Exchange Day!” in his nearly printed handwriting and he wants nothing more than to ignore that particular responsibility.

Elder Pop-Tarts is used to exchange days. It’s Connor’s responsibility to consult with each of the District 9 Elders to ensure that things are running smoothly and that everybody knows their role.

“Are you ready for companion exchange day?” Pop-Tarts inquires as Connor fixes his tie and Connor’s sure to fix on a fake smile while he’s at it.

“Of course.” He says through shiny teeth and a fake smile. “You? I know Elder Cunningham can be . . .”

“Unconventional?” Pop-Tarts offers, “Don’t worry about me. I know Elder Price can be—“

“Narcissistic.” Connor supplies, to which his partner briefly debates. “Was that mean?” Connor frowns, though he can’t help how he feels about Elder Price’s self-righteous attitude. “I’m sorry, that was uncalled for.” 

“It wasn’t necessarily wrong.” Pop-Tarts tries to ease his worries.

Connor shakes his head, “But it’s nothing a District Leader should say about one of his Elders. And for that, I’m sorry. Good luck on your baptisms today, Elder Thomas.”

“You too, Elder McKinley.” Pop-Tarts waves on his way out the door.

Connor fiddles with his tie, taking in his appearance in the dirt stained mirror he’d bought once in Kampala with a little spare pocket change that sits on top of the dresser, leaning haphazardly against the wall. He’s sunburned and worn out and the heat in Uganda isn’t terribly abnormal, but sunburn on top of sunburn on top of sunburn is less than comforting and he wants nothing more than to shed skin like a snake.

He takes in a deep breath. He can do this, he reminds himself.

The Church churns out well trained little army men and sends them Connor’s way. Kevin is their most precious . . . little renegade. Not that they could have ever predicted his straying. It’s a convoluted way of thinking about it, but Connor’s faith is waning, as it periodically does.

Sometimes, he wallows in his misery, knowing Heavenly Father’s supposed to forgive him; but never straying far enough that he can’t be honest about his devotion to the Church whenever interviews were to roll around.

But it’s different here, the not believing, because his little ragtag militia is the only group that believes. There’s no baptisms, no converts, no Mormons outside their little hut. And Kevin Price is playing tug of rope with the lot of them; rooting for his own team of one and stewing in his own incomprehensible anger.

Connor’s never seen someone fall so quickly.

“Elder Price,” McKinley says as he walks into the living area, clapping his hands together out of nervousness, “in your absence Elder Cunningham claims to have found some Africans interested in joining the Church, but we all know how finicky they can be about change so in our proselytizing today, we really need to sell it.”

Elder Price looks up at Connor from his spot on the couch, bags hanging heavy under his eyes and Connor’s brought back to a fleeting conversation about hell dreams. “So now we’re door to door salesmen?” He deadpans.

“No!” Connor replies, out of instinct, but when he really takes the time to think about it — he supposes they are, not that he’d ever satisfy Kevin with that win. “I mean, well, I— No? We’re Mormons. And we just—“

Elder Price draws himself to his full height and Connor stops his stuttering, quick to close his mouth. “Elder Price,” he says after a minute, “I know you’re having doubts and I know that, much like Lucifer, you’re falling from Heavenly Father’s graces—“

“Excuse me?” Kevin scoffs.

“Well I just—“ Connor begins, taking a step back.

“I’m sorry, did you just compare me to the devil?” Kevin laughs wryly, bordering hysterics, “I wanted to be the next Prophet, Elder. I was supposed to die and claim Planet Orlando and you’re telling me I’m akin to Satan?!”

Elder Price’s voice is rising and he might as well gain a couple feet in his anger as Connor shrinks in size. Arnold’s been whispering about creatures from far away lands from movies Connor never cared to see and if he believed a word out of Arnold’s mouth he would bet that something had replaced the real Elder Price with a venom spewing space invader, who’s biting words vaporize flesh. 

That’s how insecure and small he feels as Kevin fumes in front of him. If he were a cartoon character, red hot steam would sizzle off of him and the thought of that alone makes Connor’s sunburns hurt less. He can almost hear the whistle of a far off tea kettle meant to represent Kevin’s frustration.

“I just mean,” Connor scrambles, “there’s hope for you yet and I don’t think you should give up.”

“There’s hope for you yet.” Kevin repeats his own words back, as if to mock him. “Is that what you tell yourself?”

“Is that what I tell myself when?” Connor blinks almost daring Kevin to say it. Is that when he tells himself when he has gay thoughts? When he’s a failure to his family? When he has his own fall from grace?

“Forget it.” Kevin sighs, “We have work to do. You’re supposed to write a report to the Mission President and it’s not like you can lie.” 

Connor chalks his hostility up to lack of sleep, especially if what little sleep he got was plagued with hell dreams. So, they set out for the day only to return more irritable. No baptisms. No converts.No more Mormons outside their little hut. At least within their companionship.

When Arnold relays his good news back to the group over dinner, Kevin excuses himself.

“Do you think he’s gone?” Elder Michaels speaks up as dinner wraps, the Elders splitting the cleanup responsibilities.

“I’ll go check up on him.” Connor says, bearing the burden of Kevin’s decisions.

Empty bedroom. Empty bathroom. No sign of Kevin in the general outside vicinity.

“I’m breaking rule 72, again.” Arnold frets when Connor delivers his findings to the group.

“No, Elder.” Connor sighs, “I was his mission companion today. This is my infraction.”

His face feels numb, and there’s pins and needles behind his eyes and he doesn’t want to cry but Kevin frustrates him so much and now he’s the angry one — and how could these two newcomers stir things up for his District in such drastically different ways.

Arnold the Prophet and Kevin the drama queen.

“He’ll come back.” Connor assures the group, “Or we’ll find him tomorrow, like last time.”

“Or he’ll get eaten.” Arnold worries.

“Elder Price is not going to get eaten.” Connor desperately tries to calm his group. Well, maybe he’ll get eaten and maybe it’ll serve him right, but Connor is quick to rescind those thoughts. Elder Price is not going to get eaten, he scolds himself.

A shell of Kevin Price returns after a fruitful day of baptisms.

Arnold found him jacked up on caffeine at a little coffee stand on the fringes of the town.

“Don’t touch me!” He explodes when one of the Elders goes in for a relieved hug. Connor hadn’t seen what had happened, rushing into the room after the commotion had passed and the door to Kevin’s room had slammed shut.

Kevin’s never been a touchy feely person, but he’s never been so openly adverse to it. Especially considering his mission companion lacks any awareness to a person’s personal space.

Dejected, the Elders leave Kevin alone.

After that, the week’s events are a whirlwind. Their community grows and they baptize at least a dozen Africans.

Mostly, Kevin stands in a corner, isolating himself at every convenience and in situations where he can’t be alone, he explodes and storms off at the slightest inconvenience. Connor thinks he’s manipulative and has terrible sportsmanship and their tension only gets worse.

But, Connor doesn’t have time for Kevin. He has paperwork and an impending visit from the Mission President to worry about.

And then that passes in a blazing dumpster fire and Connor finds himself in a position he’s never been, with Kevin suggesting they stay and preach Arnold’s backwards and twisted gospel.

He’s never been more hopeless. He’s never felt more empty. Never felt so present and . . . not distracted.

Suddenly, he’s forced to face a devil he only confronts at night. His sexuality.

That stain on his soul. That damned spot.

“Come, come, come, come.” Connor remembers Lady Macbeth saying, “Give me your hand. What’s done cannot be undone. To bed, to bed, to bed!”

On sleepless nights, when Connor resigns himself to the kitchen of the Mission Hut, he thinks about those words. None truer spoken. 

What’s done cannot be undone.

But much like Lady Macbeth, he can’t sleep.

“What’re you thinking about?” Elder Thomas startles him one night as he stands in the kitchen, wringing his hands together like the queen herself.

“My sexuality.” Connor confesses with a defeated sigh, “Do you ever think about— about what if the stories we believe in are metaphors, like Arnold’s stories. What if our religion takes them too seriously?”

“What do you mean?” His companion asks, “Like what if it’s okay for you to be gay?”

“It really can’t be that bad if so many people are, right?” Connor bites his lip.

“Yeah, but so many people are sinners too, Connor.” Elder Thomas reminds him and it’s almost comforting to hear his real name again. Spoken between friends. Even if his friend isn’t him promoting him in the direction he wants to go.

“But,” Connor fumbles, “the Church changed their mind on race.”

“You don’t choose your race.” Elder Thomas frowns.

“You think I chose to be gay?” Connor wails.

“You’re not choosing to be straight.” He replies pointedly.

“Because I tried that and it’s not working.” Connor replies full of emotion, “I’ve been trying for 19 years, Elder.”

“I don’t know.” Elder Thomas forfeits, circling back to the initial question, “Maybe if you‘re sure you don’t choose to be gay, maybe the Church is old fashioned.”

“Maybe the Church is just wrong.” Connor asserts.

“Maybe.” Elder Thomas shrugs, pouring himself the glass of water he’d wandered into the kitchen to get in the first place. “Are you coming to bed?”

Connor shakes his head.

What’s done cannot be undone.

But he’s not yet ready for bed.

He has to face their technical excommunication head on and so long as he’s accepting the fact that the Church no longer wants anything to do with them, he also finds that he has to accept that should he climb down the rabbit hole in search of his authentic self, he will lose his family too. It’s a harsh reality, but with his bindings broken, Connor feels he really needs to explore new possibilities. 

He finds himself resorting to the kitchen at night. Isolating, like Kevin does, and delving into thoughts like these that he’d been previously too afraid to face. He picks up a copy of Macbeth on his next trip to Kampala. 

“To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, creeps in this petty pace from day to day.” He hi-lights in the dim light, on a night where he finds himself leaning over the counter and enjoying his alone time. On restless nights, the kitchen is his.

Kevin starts to join him, draping himself over the counter for a glass of water and they coexist wordlessly.

One day, Elder Thomas shows him a hidden container of sleeping pills made out in Kevin’s name and it starts to make sense why most mornings, they find him passed out on the couch.

But they never talk about the hell dreams.

Kevin doesn’t talk about much without exploding as of late.

Even if the District’s been shut down, Connor still holds himself responsible for the well-being of his peers. It’s frustrating that Kevin seems to think he can live without consequence, that he can just escape from his problems.

Because for others, like Connor, running away isn’t an option. He’s got to face his problem head on and he doesn’t want to accept it anymore than Kevin wants to accept his problems — but he does, because how is he supposed to move on otherwise?

“I was assaulted.” Kevin confesses into the silence one night.

Connor closes his book, but Kevin waves away his words of wisdom and his help.

Connor can’t help but feel guilty as Kevin explains himself. As much as Kevin assures him that it’s not his fault that he didn’t know, Connor wishes he hadn’t mistaken all of the signs and that he hadn’t grown so frustrated with him.

As day passes into night, their formerly wordless encounters move from the kitchen counter to the couch and they spend time properly getting to know one another.

“Why are you always reading Shakespeare?” Kevin asks, eyelids drooping as his meds take hold.

Connor shrugs as he sits with one arm draped over the back of the couch, the other playing with Kevin’s hair that far surpasses its adherence to Mission standards. He’d offered to cut it for him the following day.

“Because I like it.” He answers simply and Kevin opens his eyes as if to prove that’s the dumbest thing he’s ever heard.

“Fine,” Connor rolls his eyes, “because for a long time I related to Lady Macbeth.”

“Screw your courage to the sticking place.” Kevin quotes in a sleepy hum. “You know who else used that quote? Gaston in Beauty and the Beast.”

“Yeah and The Lion King is just a feline Hamlet.” Connor replies, looking down at Kevin who’s too far gone to say much else. When he’s sure Kevin’s asleep, he takes his leave like he does every night, making sure to throw a blanket over Kevin before he leaves.

Aside from their nighttime talks, Connor and Kevin don’t interact much, but he’ll admit he’s flattered when he returns to the Mission Hut one day to see, “Screw your courage to the sticking place.” scrawled across the chalkboard in beautiful calligraphy.

“I didn’t know you could do that.” He confronts Kevin about it that night.

“Just something I picked up in high school for fun.” Kevin shrugs nonchalantly.

They continue on like this. Comfortable. Content.

And in an indescribable way, confident. Both getting to the root of who they are after everything that’s happened.

Days pass and they find themselves coming out of their shells, like little turtles or hermit crabs, but definitely turtles because Connor learns that Kevin loves those.

Kevin becomes less reclusive, relying on Connor to keep his secret. But Connor always makes sure Kevin feels safe and cared for whenever there’s a group activity and Kevin reciprocates. For two people who learned to love isolation, it takes a lot for them to promote one another in their individual endeavors, but they’re both natural leaders and it comes easier than expected.

It takes Connor by surprise when Kevin kisses him, surging across the couch one night to breathe him in. It’s awkward and endearing and unexpected. Neither particularly experienced.

“Come, come, come, come.” The quote comes back to him as Kevin requests his company on the couch for the remainder of the night, “Give me your hand. What’s done cannot be undone. To bed, to bed, to bed!”

What’s done cannot be undone.

To bed, to bed, to bed.

As hard as Connor looks, he can’t find the stain he’d bore for 19 years. His story doesn’t end in heartbreak, but rather handholding and significant ground covered on the road to self acceptance with the help of someone he’d once misunderstood.

**Author's Note:**

> I know the McPriceley isn’t really heavy, but it’s not really about them. It’s more about Connor. 
> 
> I feel like I really have Kevin down and I wanted to write this to figure out Connor, but I don’t know if I’ve achieved that. This was meant to be his “Stop The World” type fic but right off the bat it had more dialogue than “Stop The World” did. 
> 
> Regardless, I’m happy with this little drabble and I hope you all like it. After I finish “We’ll Carry It Off,” I might consider putting out more little things like this. Or maybe another chaptered fic, who knows! 
> 
> And the whole Lady Macbeth thing came about really randomly, but I think I’m most proud about how that turned out. 
> 
> Kudos and comments appreciated! Much love!! <3


End file.
